Once, two Buddhist monks were on a journey to a distant monastery when they came to a river. Like a rushing Colorado stream in early summer, despite the water’s depth, the current was quite strong. A young woman sat on the bank and said, “I’m afraid I might be swept away. Could one of you carry me across?”

The first monk didn’t even acknowledge her and walked right past. He had taken vows to never look at let alone touch a woman. He simply walked into the rushing waters and pushed through to the other side.

The second monk bent down so the woman could climb on his back. She wasn’t heavy, but the rushing water and the rocky bottom made for a precarious crossing, the potential to topple at any time. Once they reached the other side, he let the woman down and hurried on to meet up with his traveling companion.

After some hours walking in silence, the first monk could no longer contain his anger. Irate, he burst out, “How could you touch that woman? Don’t you know our vows forbid it? You’ve put both our reputations at risk.”

The second monk smiled and looked at his companion. “I put that woman down way back there on the river bank. But I see you’re still carrying her.”[1]

The news media has largely moved on, but the shooting in a gay nightclub in Orlando is still very much on my mind. Gay nightclub. A place of sanctuary for LGBT people and straight friends – the queer community. Growing up, “queer” was a derogatory term. But younger people have embraced it. Unless it’s said by a bigot or a homophobe. And yet, it’s still not a term I’m particularly comfortable with or readily use to describe myself. The argument is that it’s more encompassing and certainly much easier to say than the LGBTQQIAA community – lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex,[2] asexual, and allies community. And so, the queer community was attacked.

We are hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down.

The queer community was attacked, on Latin night. The overwhelming preponderance of the 49 dead had Spanish surnames. Young people who were Latino, Latina, and Latinx.[3] Latinx, I learned only after the shooting, is a more gender inclusive term than the binary limitations in Spanish of male and female. A broader representation, sort of how queer is more encompassing.

But, like the fact that it was a gay nightclub, it is important to name that young queer people of color are an especially vulnerable group, particularly in the trans community. 21 trans women were murdered last year.[4] Twenty year old Goddess Diamond in New Orleans was the 14th victim already this year.

We are hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down.

Naming is important. As president, Ronald Reagan refused to utter the word AIDS before 36,058 people had already contracted the disease, with over 5,000 dead.[5] Thank God for the kind of leadership today that speaks our names. Like Loretta Lynch who said, your government sees you.

In the aftermath of Orlando, there were those who celebrated that the victims were queer;[6] sad but not surprising. I expected it. We know hatred and violence. But too many more, in churches and elsewhere, made no mention of who was at Pulse that night. Their silence is further victimization.

But also still very much on my mind are the members of Mother Emmanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina. Rev. Clementa Pinkney, Cynthia Hurd, Ethel Nance and six more.[7] African Americans know hatred and violence. Charleston was only one of many churches that has been targeted, burned and/or bombed, members killed and then ignored.

We are hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down.

Ethel Nance’s daughter, Nadine, famously, shockingly told the killer two days later, “I forgive you. You took something very precious away from me. You hurt me. You hurt a lot of people, but God forgives you, and I forgive you.” On the spot, perhaps ready or not, members of the other 8 families followed her example. We all listened, stunned.

Yet one year later, Nadine’s sister, Rev. Sharon Risher, said she still isn’t ready to forgive. “I’m not bitter, but I can’t.” The shooter doesn’t even act like he wants to be forgiven. Risher had to leave her job, finding the demands of her employment as a hospital chaplain too emotionally draining as she still grieves her mother.

Rev. Anthony Thompson’s wife Myra was killed, but he said he won’t let the shooter control his life. He said he began to heal the moment he spoke the words of forgiveness.

Alana Simmons, whose grandfather was among those murdered, gave up her job as a middle school music teacher to run a non-profit called the Hate Won’t Win Movement. That’s the way she copes – focusing on the potential for good. She said, “I couldn’t harbor hate in my heart and then go out and preach love.”

But Arthur Hurd, whose wife Cynthia died, said that the only thing that will bring him joy again is to be the one who pulls the switch that ends Dylann Roof’s life.[8]

I really like the wisdom of the story I read at the beginning about two monks and its lesson about hanging on or letting go. But I’m not sure I could do that in the face of the violent death of my loved one. In fact, it’s pretty likely that I would be quite angry at anyone who told me that story and suggested I do the same. Because even now, when people have already moved on from Orlando, I get angry that the victims can be so easily let go. These are my people. Inside I think, can’t you see that this was not an isolated incident?

We are hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down.

The hard fought gain of marriage equality in many ways has only emboldened opponents to find more insidious forms of violence and hatred. The end of slavery brought us Jim Crow laws. The election of an African American president brought us birthers and obstructionists. The beginning of marriage equality has brought us bathroom laws and the BS otherwise known as “religious liberty.” Will not even the violent deaths of 49 make this climate of hatred obvious? Or 35 trans women murdered in 18 months?

Yup. I’m angry. And frankly, I’m not sure what I would do with all this if I didn’t have a church to return to week after week. A place to put all of these conflicting emotions into context.Scripture has something to say about his moment:

We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed;perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. (2nd Corinthians 4: 8-9)

Not much has been said about the domestic violence that the Orlando shooter’s first wife and tens of thousands of women experience every day. The targeted hatred against Muslims. Hate speech directed at Mexicans. Scapegoating of refugees and immigrants. How do we process such helpless realities and the multitude of suffering experienced in our homes, and in our neighborhoods, our cities, and countries around the globe?

How? Through the practice and pattern of worship.[9] Generations upon generations of people have made their way through life’s joys and all its sorrows through worship. As we enter the sanctuary we are immediately made aware that we are part of a community, a people that transcends labels and categories and divisions that are used to separate us during the week.

By gathering to worship we choose to proclaim that there is another truth beyond that which we hear all week – that we are the center of the world, that we are individuals who make our own destiny. That hate wins. That nothing can be done.

Outside of church, we’re expected to answer “I’m fine.” But in our prayers, we can say to God and to each other, “I need you to survive.” In this safe haven, in silence here with God, and sometimes in words with others, we can confess that not all is right. And in it we have permission. We can stop hiding, we can stop pretending, we can stop denying the brokenness of our world and of our lives.

Week after week God speaks what we need to hear through song and prayer and sermon. Whether we hear it or not, it’s there – love and grace abundant. In scripture each week we hear an alternate reality; a wisdom, assurance, and challenge that sends us back out of these doors to think and act differently. Perspective gained. Gratitude expressed.

In the sacrament of communion we remember, we re-enact, a human body broken, one’s life blood poured out. God’s solidarity with humankind. A ritual act of our being in this together.

It’s in the practice and pattern of worship that God accepts my anger, our grief, why have you forsaken us, and my inability to articulate clearly because God listens to what is underneath. I need that to survive. I’m not sure what I would do without it. Thank you for being my church – and for being here today. Any time we may think, “I’m not sure if I want to go to church today,” think of all the people who need you to show up for them.

Mary Luti said, “The truth about human beings is that we're all broken. The larger truth is that we heal. And we heal each other. We have the power, often by the simplest of acts, to help each other heal.”[10]

And today, especially, with each of us in our own way, with our own griefs and losses, our own fears, in our own families and communities, we can remember that we are not alone:

We may be hard pressed on every side, but not crushed;perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.

For that I say, Amen!

[1] Each Sunday this summer we are reading a wisdom tale. This is a Zen tale in Doorways to the Soul: 52 Wisdom Tales from Around the World, edited by Elisa Davy Pearmain, Pilgrim Press, 1998, p. 121

[2] “Intersex” is a general term used for a variety of conditions in which a person is born with a reproductive or sexual anatomy that doesn't seem to fit the typical definitions of female or male. See more at http://www.isna.org/ (Intersex Society of North America)

I think the point of the story about the Buddhist monks was an admonishment about not following rigid rules when they are unkind to others, and especially not holding on to judgements. To me, this is different from not remembering loved ones and not seeking to change hate-filled situations.

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Betsy Gottlieb

7/2/2016 02:30:17 pm

P.S. Aside from that, I think your sermon about having a place of love and support to reaffirm our commitment to healing was right on!

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Pastor, Hiker, Traveler

Butler Gulch Trail, April 2016

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My three loves are being the Pastor of Park Hill UCC in Denver, Hiking in the Colorado Foothills and Mountains, and a Travelling around the world